Colleagues are telling me I should see my doctor about it. Nigella, she of the mighty bazookas, has been keeping me up nights. ‘Way past my bedtime.
She was catering for some Italian guests in Nigelissima with an Italian-inspired party. We’re talking about Nigella Lawson, of course. and she was reminding us that “this is the season of excess.”
I hoped she wouldn’t do herself any harm as she screwed the tops on some jars of goodies. Christmas simply wuldn’t be the same without chestnuts, she said with another sly glance at the camera. An under-cooked baked potato can ruin her day.
Seduced by Nigella late night. There are worse scenarios. “Well that should keep the home fires burning,” she purred as she tucked some jars away for her Venetian friends.
Keep me a place at your Yuletide table, my sweet. I’ll wash the dishes. Anything, just to be there in my nightshirt.
Joke’s on me
These howlers you get from Christmas crackers, so credibly bad they shouldn’t be allowed but here’s another you should suffer along with me. Why has the milking stool only got two legs? Because the cow has the other one. I told you it was bad, bad, bad.
Afterwords . .
. . . I understand Gordon Ramsay and dingly David Beckham plan to open a restaurant together. Unsuspecting diners could be subjected to Beck’s revolting tattoos and Ramsay’s foul-mouth ranting. And if Posh gets a job there as a waitress, well, they can put the shutters up now.